Volare
by RapidOxidation
Summary: The Romans know no boundaries in their fight for victory and the coming war proves to be cruel and unwavering to all those involved. An innocent life sacrificed for the safety of another, could become a path to freedom Awen never dared to hope for. Eventual TristanOC.
1. Memories of Freedom

**Story: **Volare: the Latin word for Fly. I thought it fit Tristan well and it makes a good title for this story

**Summary:** Fate never treated Awen kindly. She's learned to live with it the best she can, sacrificing her life for the sake of another. Love was but a distant fairytale and death was sure to be swift and accurate. Awen hadn't counted on Arthur and his knights getting involved.

**Pairing: ** Possible TristanOC/Undecided

**Warning(s):** This chapter is M for violence. Later chapters will contain sexual content, language and violence.

**Beta**: princesspomegranate. I would like to thank my Beta so much for her amazing and FAST work. I have a habit of making silly mistakes and she is saving me from making a complete fool of myself. So this chapter and probably every other chapter will be dedicated to her for her hard work.

_**Italics**_** are flashbacks**.

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Chapter 1:

_**The Memory of Freedom**_

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The wind was soft, lulling almost. The feel of it against the exposed skin of her face was heavenly, caressing her form much like a silken blanket. It was a rare occurrence for such beautiful weather in the dead of winter, with the slowly rising sun. The wool cloak blew off its place atop her shoulders, pulling and scratching along the knot resting at her neck. It did little to destroy her moment of piece, but the shouts of her name grew harder to ignore.

"Girl!"

Awen sighed is resignation, sparing one last glance to the slowly rising sun, desperately wishing it would swallow her up in its warmth, before turning toward her pursuer.

"Yes?" she spoke calmly, pretending not to notice the look of contempt on the man's face as his eyes roved over her few exposed markings.

Her fingers twitched towards the tattoos on her wrists, small but noticeable on her pale skin.

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"_Will it hurt?" _

_Awen's hands trembled and she squeezed them tightly into fists as she heeded her friend's nervous questions. In truth, she was terrified of the tiny little needle. She'd heard the laughter of those who stumbled upon this place drunk, as well as the screams of the weaker lot. She refused to be considered weak._

_She dug her heels into the dirt, her resolve renewed. These people had saved her, had given her life and a place to live. If nothing else she would follow through with this task as a sign of respect._

"_We'll be fine._

_Her voice was brave, bold. Slowly, she began to feel the way she sounded, snatching her companion's hand in her own. Awen's sweaty palm slipped against Guinevere's blue-colored skin, a feature normally reserved for battles but Guinevere appeared determined to smear the blue plant on her body every day.__Awen__finally got a good grip, squeezing the hand reassuringly._

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"-listening girl?"

Awen's eyes snapped to attention, her posture stiff and unwavering. The man huffed angrily. She couldn't recall his name but didn't care enough to think hard on it. He'd be dead soon enough. They all died eventually; weak, stubborn, greedy and easily killed, like most of the Romans she'd met. Bishop Germanus, however, among the many other religious men in power, tended to be an exception to the last bit. They hid behind lines of men that were barely supplied with the knowledge of how to manipulate a weapon and shield.

She had no respect for such nobles. Where she came from, equality was of great importance; Comrades, friends, family; each of them no better than the next.

"We head for Hadrian's Wall. Best not to linger."

He gazed over the long range of open land behind her, stopping at the tree line far in the distance.

"Never know with your kind… Could be anywhere," he said, his formal tone dripped with disdain.

She trailed off behind him, keeping her speed slow to evade the unavoidable tension of falling in step with him.

The Bishop was mounting his horse when they reached the remains of their previous night's camp. He was dressed in full armor and he blended in quite well amongst the scruffy men despite his groomed features. Awen raised an eyebrow in question, which he seemed more than happy to acknowledge.

He smirked arrogantly, tilting his chin up with a deep laugh, "Don't look so surprised, _girl."_

And there it was, the refusal to use her name, as if she was little more than the dirt beneath his horse's shoes. Years of serving under him – albeit with no choice - yet still he refused to recognize her importance.

"I have many years of experience in battle and I shall put them to good use should we run into any problems."

"Thought that was 'er job… Killin' her people to save her own hide."

The words slipped like daggers through her flesh and she bit back a nasty retort, choosing instead to fix the man with a blank look. She had discovered quickly that a lack of emotion on her part lit more fear in the eyes of the soldiers than anger, and she wielded the knowledge with great amusement.

Her eyes turned to the brightening sky, the cries of a beautiful hawk echoed above them. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the creature as she whistled, drawing her horse's attention. The buckskin stallion made quick work of the distance between them, not missing a step when Awen grabbed a handful of mane and hauled herself up with great ease. The tight black breeches slid against the simple leather saddle until she sat comfortably, her tunic's sleeves were too long and the black fabric fell close to her knuckles. Awen disregarded the thick black burden, pushing her braid back over her shoulder.

She leaned down to pat the horse's muscled neck, whispering affectionately in her native tongue, "Umbra, ride hard and swift. Let this journey bring us closer to home."

Another short whistle was the only warning their traveling party received before Awen took off ahead of them, scouting the area for anything amiss or threatening. She reveled in the wind whipping back her hair, the smell of fresh morning dew wafting off the ground and resisted the urge to close her eyes, once again casting her attention to the flying creature above her.

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It was only a few hours later that found Awen already growing tired of the daily routine. Her brisk pace had given way to a reasonable speed after a short distance. When the rest of her party still had trouble keeping within her range of sight, she started making periodic stops, giving them a chance to catch up, before urging Umbra on again. The horse's gait was frustrated and restless with their unpredictable pace. She could feel his agitation in the twitching of his muscles beneath her.

"Shh."

She stroked beneath his tangled hair, silently promising to let him lose for a few hours in the night after a good brushing. His body continued to bounce under her comforting touch as the wagons and soldiers came upon them. In an instant, the air changed. Although no one seemed to notice anything awry, keeping their lackluster speed. Awen could feel her instincts warning her; posture strained in apprehension.

Umbra twisted her from side to side; ignoring her attempts to quell his sudden temper, before she noticed the seven figures perched along a hilltop. _The Samaritan Knights,_ she thought, her mouth twisting downward. They were traveling towards the caravan quickly with their swords drawn.

Awen's nimble fingers reached her bow and arrow without a second thought. She was armed and aiming when she turned toward the trees, shooting with deadly accuracy into the dark forest. She disregarded the shouts of distress behind her, watching with a solemn expression as a blue painted body fell lifelessly from a tree. The rest of them, Woads as they were called, came barreling into the open to attack.

Awen's hands faltered momentarily, watching Germanus from the corner of her eye. She made her way to the edge of the battle, keeping a close eye on the Bishop and doing little else to help the slaughter. She killed only when attacked, trying to make her victims' deaths as quick as possible. She refused to meet their eyes, training her focus on the movements of her assailants' feet.

The constriction in her chest and throat tightened painfully as her eyes fluttered, dull blue irises disappearing behind their lids.

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"_Hush! Crying won't help anything!"_

_The poor girl wiped the tears from her face angrily, shooting an impressive glare for a child of only ten summers._

"_You said it wouldn't hurt!"_

"_I said no such thing Guinevere!" Awen snapped._

_Her eyes turned to that of her fiery friends', her expression softening at the pained look she was met with._

"_What is done is done. A few days and it will become a sign of our strength and the pain will be forgotten."_

_Guinevere's eyes lightened immediately, a small smile tugging at her lips. Their thoughts, obviously very similar, trailed to their training. There was a moment of silence before Guinevere jumped to her feet rather enthusiastically, grabbing Awen's hand as she trotted towards the small meadow littered with weapons. _

"_Hurry! We have no time to waste if we wish to catch up to those filthy boys!" _

_Awen laughed happily as Guinevere threw her arms towards the 'filthy' group they passed. It was a crude gesture, and Awen smiled even wider at her friend's behavior._

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The noise around her had ceased, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of horse hooves and men sharing quiet words. She didn't bother them with as much as a sideways glance, kicking Umbra into a canter toward the head of the group. She kept her head down the whole way, stray pieces of brown hair sneaking from beneath her cloak and shielding her face.

She could feel their stares, their disbelief and mistrust. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Awen tossed aside the urge to pay them any attention. She would assess them later, from the safety of her cloak when their interest of her presence wore away.

"Girl!"

She sighed quietly, wondering if the insufferable man would ever give her a moment of piece.

"Arthur and I have much to speak of. Horton shall ride with you."

Awen stopped dead; the burning in her veins grew hotter with each passing moment. She turned slowly, _deliberately._ The blank look was hard to accomplish. She wished to sneer, snarl and growl but contained her emotions, holding eye contact with the Bishop. His eyebrow was raised, baiting her to disobey. They both knew she would not.

Awen kicked her horse into a walk before bolting forward. She bunched the hood of Horton's cloak in her fist as she passed him, not bothering to slow down for the frightened man. He released a startled sound, floundering for purchase on Umbra's back as she pulled him up.

The horse seemed none too pleased at the extra weight and let it be known, tugging at the reins in Awen's hands and letting his hooves fall heavier into the earth.

She gritted her teeth when Horton's arms went instinctively around her waist. He seemed to sense her displeasure, instead leaning away to hold the back of her saddle.

"Good girl," she heard the Bishop bark.

Awen finally lost her temper. It was quick and harmless but she was fully pleased with the sound of whipping wind and cracking wood as the arrow sliced halfway through the wagon door. Horton gasped in horror, but Awen ignored him, setting a fast and uncomfortable pace back to Hadrian's Wall.

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**Author's Note:**I started this story on a whim. I've been reading many lovely King Arthur Fan Fics and there's just been this nagging in the back of my mind and a spin of ideas making me dizzy. So here it is, I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I love writing. Reviews and feedback are so appreciated and always welcome. Thank you all so much!


	2. A Taste of Benevolence

**Story: **Volare: the Latin word for Fly. I thought it fit Tristan well and it makes a good title for this story

**Summary:** Fate never treated Awen kindly. She's learned to live with it the best she can, sacrificing her life for the sake of another. Love was but a distant fairytale and death was sure to be swift and accurate. Awen hadn't counted on Arthur and his knights getting involved.

**Pairing:** TristanOC

**Warning(s):** This chapter is M for violence. Later chapters will contain sexual content, language and violence.

**Beta**: The lovely and awesome princesspomegranate. She's an amazing writer and I'm proud to call her my Beta. ;)

_**Italics**_** are flashbacks.**

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Chapter 2:

_**A Taste of Benevolence**_

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Time leaked by; days seemed like years, hours like weeks and each moment passed Awen by with great detail. Each moment forced her to relive the mistakes of her past as well as the obstacles she had yet to overcome. The tortures of time played in her mind endlessly. How long was it since she had last seen a piece of her clothing not spotted with blood? How long since wine had not reminded her of the lives she took? How long before her life became her own again?

It was selfish, truly it was. Awen knew from the very moment she'd dropped on her hands and knees before the Bishop, begging for the freedom of her people, her _friend_, that it was to be a long journey ahead of her. Though, the memory did not stop the rare feelings of regret that clouded her thoughts every now and then.

The sun was sitting high in the sky when Hadrian's Wall came into view, signaling early afternoon. The sudden urge to be rid of her company disappeared when she imagined what awaited her behind the stone fortress, her hand pulling back the reins without her knowledge. Umbra obeyed without hesitation, sensing the ominous feelings of his master. She knew what awaited her inside the fort. Her usefulness to the Romans only stretched out here in the wilderness, away from their guarded hiding places, and she was in no rush to give up the fresh air and day light. Most of all she would miss the dead calm of night, with stars sprinkled across the black sky.

It was easiest at night to close her eyes and travel far away to beautiful laughter, familiar faces and the soft singing. Quiet nights were the closest to freedom Awen had known for nearly a year.

Stifled coughing shook Awen's head clear of all impractical liberties. She could sense Horton's efforts to be as little a burden as possible throughout the ride. Arthur had long since abandoned the wagon in exchange for his horse and Awen futilely wondered why she was still forced to carry the load behind her.

As if on command, Horton slid down from Umbra the instant the wagon's door opened, welcoming him back to its safety. His haste both pleased and irritated Awen all at once. She took the opportunity to trail farther from the group, slipping to the back. Silent but not unnoticed. Her eyes were trained to the ground, feigning interest in the clouds of dust that ghosted up beneath Umbra's hooves.

She could hear the knights as they jested amongst each other, her gaze sneaking up beneath her dark hood and lashes, observing the men before her. There was a bright, golden haired knight; Gawain. He easily resembled a lion; an exotic animal she'd heard of in countless tales of lands overseas. Of course, she'd never laid eyes on such a beast, but she expected if she did, it would look something like Gawain.

The others gave themselves away just as quickly. It may have been harder to put names to the faces had Bishop Germanus and his men not spoken of them so frequently during their travels. Their judgments aside, Awen had met them once before. It was so long ago, at an age where memories were blurry and picked apart at best. The only salvageable remembrances she did have were of horror and pain. Memories she tried to do without.

They were young then, little more than boys armed with over-sized weapons, fear and anger in their eyes. She had understood their emotions so easily because she felt that anger and fear as well.

Arthur, with his lifted chin and proudly donned red cape, required no effort to recognize. To Arthur's right, with the similar curly dark hair and intelligent, witty eyes was Lancelot, rumored to be just as sharp with his charm as on the battlefield with swords. Tall and intimidating was Dagonet. Loud and crude, with a humor that Awen had not taken a liking to in the last few hours, was Bors. The youngest one of them all was Galahad. He adorned a childlike smile on his face and too-happy an attitude for their circumstances.

There was one more, Awen reminded herself, inching her head to the side when she finally registered the presence beside her.

He was watching her. His eyes were unreadable and cold, piercing through hers with an intensity that she couldn't understand. No words were spoken between them, just the intent look that made it nearly impossible to break away. She managed to escape from the unnerving stare, although with great difficulty, dropping her eyes to the white-knuckled grip on her reins.

His attention on her seemed to remind the rest of the knights of her presence. Without warning the laughter ceased. She refused to look up, knowing she would be greeted by many pairs of curious eyes.

"A Woad fighting alongside Romans… An interesting sight, is it not?"

Awen lifted her head just enough to regard Lancelot with a blank look. She was pleased by the shadow her hood provided. It gave her comfort to know she could hide any distasteful emotions that were certain to get her in trouble later.

Lancelot appeared unhindered by her lack of response and leaned on the horn of his saddle, bending to consider her from a different angle.

"Is it their joyous company or the blood of your own kind that attracts you?"

It was situations like this that Awen strove so hard to avoid; new surroundings, new people and new threats caused her unrest. The disdain and sarcasm dripped heavily from his words, contradicting the charming smile hinted on his lips. His eyes darkened after a few moments, pulling away as if he'd never spoken to her.

She idly wondered if the skeptical and bitter nature would still be present, had his life not been stolen from him before it had truly begun. So many lives, so many people, all tangled in the horrifying web of Rome's war and greed.

Awen bit the inside of her cheek until the subtle metallic taste of blood assaulted her tongue. Her body felt weak and heavy so suddenly. She couldn't find the strength to care when they came upon the thick armored doors, watching indifferently as they opened with a loud groan of protest.

The rest of the ride was lost to her; beyond the walls the usual procedures would take place. She was rarely ever given enough time to look after her horse.

Awen finally came to at the sound of loud feminine shouts and a sharp slap. Her head turned to watch the burly knight in a seemingly one-sided argument. The rough treatment from, who she assumed was his woman, did nothing to discourage Bors' obvious enthusiasm. It rather stimulated him further, and Awen watched in wonderment as Bors threw himself into a hearty kiss.

She did not allow herself to marvel at the scene unfolding.

Happiness was scarce in these lands and such an act of affection among these knights, knights led by a _Roman_ commander no less, lit a small amount of hope in Awen that she immediately rid herself of.

There was so much cluster and noise; it was enough to make Awen's head spin. She was accustomed to the relative quiet of the unclaimed lands North of the wall, often keeping a great expanse of distance between herself and the soldiers she traveled with. It made it more difficult to adapt to the large crowds and deafening noise of civilization. She imagined she could adjust, given the right amount of time within such commotion, but she was never given the chance.

It was probably for the best.

She appraised the dirt area, searching for a small space out of the way to dismount. Her legs felt light and unsteady from the long ride. Softly stepping from one foot to the other, Awen shook free of the familiar sensation. In her heart, all she wished to do was slip back on top of Umbra and ride out to the inviting open land outside Hadrian's Wall.

"There she is. Been lookin' all over for ya girl. Where ya been?" barked the man with rotten teeth and wrinkly skin, the kind that suggests he'd spent too many years out in the sun.

Awen also recognized him as one of the few Roman soldiers that hid under wagons to save his own hide at the first sign of a battle. She jerked back when the soldier unexpectedly reached forward, trying to escape the smell of sweat and filth emitting from the closeness of his hand; an entirely unpleasant mix.

Her hood was tugged back roughly for her resistance, catching on a few chunks of her wavy hair. Awen lifted up her chin, a futile attempt at showing how the cold metal being clasped around her wrists did nothing to frighten her. Her neck would be next and the tugging would start, half-dragging and half-leading her down to a metal-barred cage. She wondered what state she would discover her new cell to be in; determining that more times than not, conditions of imprisonment were a reflection of a fort's leaders.

Would the stories of Arthur's selfless and compassionate nature prove to be true? Although what she'd been told about the commander made it nearly impossible to envision any measure of confinement existing in his fort.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur's voice bellowed over the noise of the crowd.

Awen clicked her tongue, annoyed and trying desperately to ignore the undivided attention she was now faced with.

The guard hesitated, unsure of how to reply, as if he hadn't felt that there was anything wrong with what he was doing. To all but the knights and strangers of the fort, witnessing the _savage girl _in chains was nothing new.

Awen did not wish to make the happening a big event. And as the crowd around them grew thicker, her desire for the concealment a cell provided arose. She had never been one for attention; a feature that was unlikely to ever change.

"She is a prisoner of the church and must be treated as such!" the Bishop never gave the Roman officer a chance to speak, shouting at Arthur as he positioned himself between Awen and the commander. "Do not attempt to interfere, this does not concern you."

His voice trailed off at the end of his outburst, before releasing a nervous chuckle. Awen couldn't blame him, Arthur look anything but impressed by the Bishop's reasoning.

The other knights started to gather behind Arthur. They looked far beyond intimidating.

"The dungeons of this fort are reserved for murderers and rapists; those who have committed heinous crimes." Arthur said, lifting his sword effortlessly and gesturing to where Awen was standing, "She will not be among them."

"The girl has taken many lives. She is not unfamiliar to the dark corners of a cell."

The Bishop's face brightened, a smile easing the troubled wrinkles above his brow. It was an expression meant to ease the tension, falling far short in its endeavor.

"From what I saw, she fought _with_, not _against__,_ the Romans. She is no guiltier of murder than me and my men, or _your_ men for that matter."

Arthur's tone left no room for dispute. It caused the Bishop's hands to curl in tight fists at his sides, his smile replaced by a deep frown.

"Surely you do not expect me to allow her freedom? She must not be trusted."

Arthur's eyes swept over to Awen, staring for what seemed like eternity. It felt like a thousand pounds atop her shoulders as she remained motionless under the scrutiny. Arthur nodded eventually, signaling his knights forward. They spoke in whispered voices and try as she might, Awen failed to read the expressions on their faces.

When Arthur turned back to her, she felt her lungs constrict and her palms begin to sweat. Something about the warning in his eyes, tinted with regret, made Awen very cautious and alert. She could sense she would not like what was to come and that she would be unable to stop it.

"It is settled. She will stay with one of my men, they will watch over her until other arrangements can be agreed upon."

The Bishop's expression held an air of utter scandal, his mouth moved slightly, unable to form any sound. Awen let a small smile grace her features, despite the worry eating at her insides.

"Jols," Arthur addressed a loyal follower without releasing the Bishop from his stare, "if you would."

The man nodded in acknowledgement, swiftly making his way to the silent girl and relieving the soldiers of her restraints.

"Come on lass," he said kindly, "best to leave Roman business to the Romans."

With a quick wink, Jols turned on his heels, giving her a moment to follow without tugging her along. Sparing one last glance to the spat still taking place, Awen took a few long strides, slowing down right behind Jols.

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands, a welcome distraction from the metal chaffing against her neck and wrists. She was still unsure and weary of Arthur and his men. The commander's actions on her behalf only succeeded in confusing her further. Observing Bishop Germanus' fall from grace had provided Awen only a few short moments of indulgence, leaving her to ponder whether she would be the one to pay for Arthur's defiance.

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**Author's Note:** So here is the second chapter. I'm working on the third one right now, getting in a bit of Awen's history for you all, so you can get a better feel for her character. I'm hoping to squeeze in a bit of Tristan and Awen interaction next chapter.

Reviews are loved and appreciated so **much**. Thank you guys for reading I hope you liked it. Feel free to contact me with any questions!


	3. What Is Lost Is Never Forgotten

**Story: **Volare: the Latin word for Fly. I thought it fit Tristan well and it makes a good title for this story

**Summary:** Fate never treated Awen kindly. She's learned to live with it the best she can, sacrificing her life for the sake of another. Love was but a distant fairytale and death was sure to be swift and accurate. Awen hadn't counted on Arthur and his knights getting involved.

**Pairing: **Possible TristanOC/Undecided

**Warning(s):** This chapter is M for violence. Later chapters will contain sexual content, language and violence.

**Beta**: princesspomegranate. I would like to thank my Beta so much for her amazing and FAST work. I have a habit of making silly mistakes and she is saving me from making a complete fool of myself. So this chapter and probably every other chapter will be dedicated to her for her hard work.

_**Italics**_** are flashbacks**.

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Chapter 3:

_**What Is Lost Is Never Forgotten**_

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"It's just around here."

Awen followed Jols around another bend of stone walls, eyeing the wooden door that they were approaching apprehensively. She considered asking Jols who the room belonged to, but remained silent.

The door opened after a sharp push from Jols, leaving Awen to stare at the chamber beyond in curiosity. The room was large but not overly so. And clean as well. She never thought of what a soldier's room might look like, but this was certainly not what her mind would have conjured up.

It was very bare; a few pieces of parchment and weapons littered over a long table, forgotten until a need for them presented itself. The bed rested against the far wall of the room, just beneath a wide window. The darkening sky beckoned her closer. Awen could scarcely make out the beginnings of the moon and stars. A flicker of longing bloomed in her chest; she may very well get to see the night sky for at least one more night.

"I'm sorry lass, seems unnecessary to me, but orders are orders."

Awen turned away from the window, abruptly recalling she was not yet alone.

"It's probably easiest to link you to the bed, best way to get some comfortable sleep."

Awen's eyebrows furrowed together as she took in his innocent suggestion. He made to move toward the bed and Awen's hand shot out gently halting his movement.

"No."

Jols' confusion was displayed clearly on his face.

"I would prefer the floor, if it is no trouble," she added as an afterthought, trying to sound more polite.

This man was nice enough; she did not wish to offend him.

"Alright then, have it your way," Jols sighed while he examined the walls of the room. "Ah, perfect."

The chains stretched out when Awen didn't immediately follow Jols lead, instead watching him hook and latch her chain to a small, but thick, metal hoop next to the hearth. Awen sat slowly, crossing her legs to observe Jols tossing a generous amount of firewood into the pit.

"That should do it, keep you nice and warm."

"Thank you," she spoke softly; her words sincere.

He smiled in return and left with a quick nod. Awen listened to the sound of the door's latch close, and then scooted closer to the warmth of the fire as exhaustion worked its way into each muscle of her body. She tangled her fingertips into the soft fur blanket beneath her. Eyes falling shut, Awen leaned onto her side, breathing deeply when her body rested fully on the ground.

She pushed her nose into the furs. They smelled of fresh rain and earth, with an unidentifiable hint of spice. It was a surprisingly agreeable scent that soothed Awen into a heavy sleep.

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"_How many kinds of sweet flowers grow in a country garden? We'll tell you now of some that we know, those we miss you'll surely pardon. Daffodils, Heartsease and Phlox, Meadowsweet and Lady's Smocks, Gentian, Lupine and tall Hollyhocks…" Awen shouted brokenly through peals of laughter._

_Her hair flew from side to side as she tossed it to and fro in time with their song._

_"…Roses, Foxgloves, Snowdrops, blue Forget-me-nots, in a beautiful country garden," Lina finished, giggling just as brightly._

_The bounce of their horse distorted their shrill chant. _

_"How many insects come here and go in a beautiful country garden? We'll tell you now of some that we know, those we miss you'll surely pardon. Fireflies, moths, gnats and bees, spiders climbing in the trees. Butterflies drift in the gentle breeze. There are snakes, ants that sting and other creeping things in a beautiful country garden," they crooned together, shouting when a particularly high note startled their mount into a jumpy trot._

"_Your voice has scared the poor beast, Awen!" Lina giggled, tossing her head back in delight as Awen shot her a look of offense._

_Awen tried to hold her glare but the sight of her friend in such a joyous mood triggered a smile of her own. Awen slid carefully off the slow-moving horse, almost losing her footing. She brushed the invisible dirt from her tunic and britches and looked up to find Lina struggling off the horse, her legs tangling in her dress. Awen bounded over to them, outstretching her arms in a confident offering. Lina did not appear keen on the proposal, but pushed herself into her awaiting friend with a lax yelp._

_Both went tumbling to the ground, rolling over each other a handful of times. They were covered in soot, specks of dirt smudged arbitrarily on their once clean faces._

"_I should sooner feed myself to a pack of wild dogs then to trust your strength," Lina grumbled, shifting up into a sitting position._

"_Forgive me for my efforts. I'll not make the mistake of coming to your aid again," she shot back, her breathing ragged and hair tousled._

_A long moment of silence passed before they both broke out into unconstrained laughter, clutching their stomachs tightly. The noise ebbed away slowly, giving way to a quiet calm. Lina dropped back to lay upon Awen's thigh, her arms folding behind her head with a soft sigh. _

_The sun was setting, and what a serene time it was. The sky was blue and pink and filled with clouds. But, it was the tiny lining of red along the horizon that caught Awen's attention. She tilted her head, attempting to recall the colors' meaning at day's end._

"_How many songbirds fly to and fro in a beautiful country garden? We'll tell you now of some that we know those we miss you'll surely pardon; Bobolink, Cuckoo and Quail, Tanager and Cardinal, Bluebird, Lark, Thrush and Nightingale. There is joy in the spring, when the birds begin to sing in a beautiful country garden," Lina sang tiredly, her voice almost lost into the wind._

_She blinked rapidly, her eyelids visibly heavy. Just when they fully closed, Awen shot to her feet, knocking Lina from her place. _

"_Awen!"_

_Lina rubbed her head gingerly, wondering on her friend's sudden distress._

"_Hush," Awen replied, holding her hand up to Lina in a dismissive gesture._

_Like this, Awen looked far beyond her years. She was not a child in play now; she was the cautious and ever-careful daughter of an old soldier._

"_Can you hear it?" Lina kept completely still, frantically listening for whatever Awen was so focused on. _

"_It cannot be," she gasped._

_Lina heard them, Awen could tell by her wide-eyed fright. Awen turned to the horse, noting his ears perk in the direction of their small village. Before she could move, Lina grabbed hold of her sleeve, tugging her back with urgency._

"_No, Awen!" she shouted. "Remember what your father told us. We must run from here, we must find refuge, there is nothing we can do!" _

_Awen saw the desperation, the fear in her friend, and she did not share Lina's state of mind. Her thoughts remained solely on her impaired father. He would not make it far on his weakened legs and Awen was well-accustomed to his compassion. He would use every last horse for the women and children, and maybe a few able soldiers to guide them to safety._

"_My family, our friends… I cannot leave them behind," she stated calmly, loosening her sleeve from Lina's taut grip._

"_What will you do? You know not how to wield a weapon apart from a dirk! Those drums beat for war, Awen. We must make way to safety."_

_Awen was already struggling onto her father's tall horse. She spared one more glance at Lina's pleading expression, she looked ready to drop to her knees and beg._

"_Go ahead; we'll catch up to you!"_

_Lina shook her head wildly, tears running freely down her cheeks, "Your father could be dead already!"_

_The words hung in the air, building a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Lina hung her head in shame, unable to erase the damage she caused._

"_That may be, but I won't allow myself to go on with life, questioning whether I could have helped it! Run Lina, run and do not look back, do not stop!" she cried, kicking her mount roughly to a gallop in the direction of helpless shouts and clouds of smoke._

_._

_._

_._

"_Father!" _

_Awen plunged through the village, barely avoiding the sea of motionless bodies strewn across the ground. The only sounds were the echoes of her cries and the cackling of still-burning shelters._

"_Father," she whined in defeat._

_The smoke stung her eyes and filled her lungs. It was a great struggle for Awen to keep from coughing, fearful that she would fail to pinpoint his whereabouts. There was not a living soul in sight; neither friend nor foe. _

_She came across a large, brawny man, his wear thick with animal pelts and leather, a crossbow lying just out of his reach. Awen stared, instantly fitting the sight to that of her father's descriptions._

_Saxons._

_Awen studied the bodies surrounding him, thankful that most she had only ever met in passing. Until her attention fell upon and all too-familiar sight. Scarred, sun-kissed skin, oddly situated fingers – broken and healed at odd angles - dark, greying hair spread around his head, much like a halo. She could only make out half of his form, the other half concealed beneath the Saxon's bulk._

_She jumped down from the horse, sinking to her hands and knees into the mess of mud. She moaned in anguish, yanking her hands free from the pull of wet earth and crawling over to her father's fallen figure. Awen pushed at the Saxon with all her might, growling in her efforts. It took all her weight to force the man's body away; he thudded heavily onto his back._

"_Father," she cried, "please father, do not leave me. I beg of you!"_

_She rested her head above his stagnant heart, praying to hear it beat as it did mere hours ago. Awen's cheek slid over a slick substance, her hands encountering a similar wetness. She lifted from his chest, staring numbly at her red-coated flesh. She could not remember how to cry, could not remember how to feel. It was as if there was nothing inside her, nothing left of her heart._

_She wiped the blood onto her tunic in an unnatural calm. Her fingers reached timidly for her cheek. Her breathing labored at the sight of more blood… her _father's_ blood._

_Awen rubbed at her skin until it was raw; desperate to rid herself from the unwelcome symbol of his death._

"_What do I do? Somebody tell me what I must do!" she begged._

_The answer came from the corners of her own mind, slowly acknowledging that she would not be alone for much longer. She could hear voices in the distance, steadily coming closer. It didn't matter that the voices were that of her language. With one last goodbye, Awen kissed her father's forehead, willing the tears back until she was far away from danger, safe to unleash her grief._

_A large group of horses and men flooded out into view. She could tell they were allies from the somber expressions they bared and the bloodied British armor. Closer inspection proved them younger than she originally thought. One boy turned his head in her direction, eyes widening at the sight of her._

_Awen stumbled back to the horse, finding it harder to climb with sorrow dragging her back down. She huffed in exertion, not willing to waste another moment in the newly made graveyard. _

_Away she ran; away from the frantic calls, away from her father's motionless body, away from her birthplace and her mother's deathbed, away from her home. _

_She was tossed about the horse's back; making a mad dash for the cover of the forest. She rode hard and fast, not even allowing herself to stop for the familiar bundle of dresses floating face down in the lake. Awen tried to pretend it was a stranger, imagining Lina still mounted in a field of flowers, her beautiful voice echoing across the pasture._

"_I'm sorry." She whispered one last time._

_Fear kept her saddled and determination pushed her forth._

_._

_._

_._

_Only now did Awen understand her father's rules against the forest. It was dark and ominous. Rain fell heavily against her matted hair, soaking her to the bone. Her horse was moving slower each hour, fatigue threatening to leave Awen without his company. She dared not dismount and risk being so vulnerable within the unknown territory. _

_She startled at every snapping twig and bolt of thunder, cursing under her breath. _

_She was so cold; wet beyond recognition and without a cloak. She was grateful for the rain, as it washed the red stains from her being. She opened her mouth, welcoming the water to relieve her dry tongue. The rain poured down on her, making the steady flow of tears unnoticeable._

_Without warning she was thrown from her horse, crashing to the ground in a heap. Her wrist cracked against the root of a tree, her back bending painfully over another. Her pain was muffled by another clang of thunder. Awen tried to move, watching helplessly as her escape ran out of reach, hooves beating quickly away._

"_Peidiwch â symud," a voice commanded, resting the point of a blade against her collarbone. _

"_I do not understand," she croaked._

_The man glared at her, seemingly frustrated with the inability to communicate._

"_Roman?" he asked with difficulty._

_Awen shook her head, happy to understand what he was asking, even more so when he lowered the blade and considered her pathetic condition._

"_Peidiwch â bod ofn i mi."_

_He spoke in a demanding tone and although Awen could not interpret the meaning of his words, she decided against trying to escape, nodding uncertainly. He was seemingly pleased with her reaction, bending over to scoop her up. The last memory she had of that night was rain falling through breaks in the thick treetops; crying for the what day had taken._

_._

_._

_Wide brown eyes, filled with confusion, greeted Awen as she awoke. Her breath caught, the closeness of such a feral-looking presence filled Awen with unease. The girl was but a few hairs from her face. She did not appear to understand the concept of personal space, absorbed in the stranger before her._

"_You are strange."_

_Awen was stunned. Her mouth turned down into a deep frown, regarding the girl who had insulted her within moments of meeting. She did not even know her name. Something else caught Awen's attention; the girl's whole body was covered in blue paint._

"_Says you, with the blue skin," she retorted, raising her brows in challenge. _

_The girl smirked and sat back on her haunches, "I like you. We shall be friends."_

_That was… odd. Awen was not familiar with this method of acquiring new friends. She shrugged, expressing her appreciation when the girl helped her sit up to survey the small wooden hut. _

"_I am Guinevere."_

"_Awen," she supplied, attempting to match Guinevere's smile._

_She knew it did not reach her eyes when Guinevere's smile faltered. _

_Suddenly she recalled the man who had spooked her horse, been the cause of her fall and then spared her life. She looked to Guinevere, not quite understanding._

"_You do not speak the same language as the man who brought me here."_

_Guinevere nodded, "My father believes speaking this language and the language of my people will be of help to me someday." _

_Awen accepted her answer before her mind wandered back to her home, or what was left of it. Had she really been the only one to survive? She couldn't help questioning her choices; if she had stayed with Lina, could they both have escaped together, or would they _both_ have fallen under the wrath of the Saxon?_

"_You have to wake up Awen."_

_Awen's head snapped to Guinevere, "I am awake."_

"_No. Wake up, Awen," Guinevere urged._

"_I do not understand…"_

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.

.

She woke with a start, rolling to her knees in an instant, her fingers already clutching the dagger sheathed inside her boot. Her eyes adjusted to the unexpected darkness, willing away the sleep-fog from her mind. The dagger pointed aimlessly toward the shadows, watching the dying embers behind her that reflected in the blade.

Awen remained crouched, taking in the dim, tall outline of a male. He was leaning causally against the door, arms crossed over his chest. Her gaze traveled higher, identifying the disheveled dark hair, dressed with a few, unkempt braids. The rest of him was hidden in the shadows, and although Awen could not see his eyes, she knew he was watching her.

She lowered her dagger slowly, showing that she was not a threat. It landed in the fur beside her; out of hand but just within reach should she need it. The next few moments were agonizing. Awen could not have been more uncomfortable. His scrutiny was overwhelming and, truth be told, he was the last knight she wanted to share a room with.

Her legs folded beneath her as she came down from her defensive position. It appeared that that was what he was waiting for, as he pushed off the wall just the moment Awen seated. He walked out into the faint light, the embers' glow dancing across his unreadable expression. She noticed the tattoos under his eyes for the first time and her thoughts flickered to her own; comparing them.

He didn't seem bothered by her stare; giving her another once over, before shrugging out of his outer layers, leaving his upper body in a dark, loose tunic. He didn't even bother to remove his boots as he unbelted his swords, lining them on a table across the room. She watched curiously, amazed at how many hidden weapons he revealed.

Awen's musings were interrupted when he turned back, striding upon her with a look of purpose. Awen stood her ground. Her body was tense and her eyes betrayed her mistrust.

He crouched before her with a deliberately slow pace, holding out his hands in a calming manner. When he extended his hands further, Awen twitched back slightly, eyeing him wearily while he retreated, reaching into the breast pocket of his tunic and holding out a small key.

"Do not fear me, girl."

Awen cringed at the familiar title, openly showing her distaste. She rifled through her memories, trying desperately to remember his name.

"_Do you have to do that, Tristan?" _ One of the knights had asked in dislike.

"Tristan_,"_ she thought out loud, testing the name on her tongue.

It was a nice name. He paused when she spoke, his eyes flashed to hers, holding her gaze until the metal clanked onto the ground, releasing her neck from its confinement. She rubbed her the abused part appreciatively.

Tristan held out his hand and nodded to her wrists. She hesitated, laying them out into his grip. His hands were much larger than her own, calloused and rough, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. The wrist cuffs came off just as quickly, revealing the reddened skin beneath them and her small intricate tattoos.

Tristan scrutinized them briefly, running the pads of his thumbs over the dark symbols. She drew her hands away, holding them to her chest with a look of defiance. She wasn't keen on waiting for the loathing to settle in. She had enough of that in her travels; during her imprisonment was the only time she didn't have to hide how little it made her feel to be stared at and treated with such disdain.

His eyes were stern, warning her not to make him regret his decision to release her.

Awen settled back into the warm fur, her eyes following Tristan's graceful movements to his bed. She waited until his breathing evened out to slip back into a light sleep, her fingers curling tightly around the hilt of her dagger.

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**Author's Note:**

"_Peidiwch â symud." – Do not move._

"_Peidiwch â bod ofn i mi." _- Do not be afraid of me.

I used Welsh as the language of the Woads; yes, I understand they did not speak Welsh. Supposedly it was one of the true languages spoken by King Arthur, but who can really be sure? I read the language of the Woads was a dead Celtic language and to avoid making an ass out of myself I'm just going to use Welsh since it is slightly relative.

I'm sorry this chapter was rather short, they will hopefully get longer. You have a bit of her history now; of course more will come with each chapter. The Tristan/Awen interaction was brief and for that I apologize. I really wanted to focus on her past and just establish a meeting between them. I'm trying desperately not to push them together too fast. It needs to be natural and flow, not be forced.


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